


A Ways To Go

by darwinsdonut



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Feels, Breakup, Demisexual Simmons, Hospital Scenes, M/M, Modern AU, Simmons' Dad - Freeform, Unnamed Kaikaina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 20:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14292612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinsdonut/pseuds/darwinsdonut
Summary: After a horrible fight leads to Grif and Simmons breaking up, Simmons is left trying to figure out what to do- only for the worst to happen, and his chance of fixing things being significantly reduced.





	A Ways To Go

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Simmons had meant it when he said he loved Grif. Simmons had meant it every time he met Grif’s eyes and couldn’t help but tell him how beautiful he was. Simmons had meant it every single time he’d promised to always dream of Grif. 

He’d known when he first met Grif that this was it, that this was the one. Simmons had spent eighteen years trying to feel something for girls that didn’t happen, had thought maybe he just didn’t feel attraction- and he had been twenty, two years into college, two years into knowing Grif, when he’d first been assaulted by the image of burying his hands in that curly hair and kissing his room-mate. He’d thought they would just be best friends with a tang of unrequited love, until one fateful drunken night when everything spilled out and they woke up in bed together the next morning. It was the boldest Simmons had ever been, when Grif offered that they never speak of it again- and Simmons asked why not. 

Everything was so different now, all these change, all the startling reality, and… He couldn’t feel like any right choice involved leaving Grif, but Grif had made choice, too. They’d both fucked up. Simmons was just the one to call it quits. 

Simmons couldn’t tell Grif that he’d ended up saying fuck it and telling his dad how he really felt. That he loved Grif, whether his dad approved or not. That his dad was a homophobic _asshole_ and could go sit on a cactus for all Simmons cared. Simmons couldn’t tell Grif that, because Grif wouldn’t let him, and because Grif had asked him to say all those things and Simmons had refused. 

It had all been one big mess, that deciding fight; Grif telling Simmons to man up to his dad, Simmons telling Grif to drop it and that it was Simmons’ choice, Grif telling Simmons to stop pulling away, Simmons calling Grif clingy. It had… Well, it just got worse the longer it continued, until, finally, Simmons had been the one to call it: 

_What are we even fighting for?_

And Grif- Grif had just made it worse: _I don’t even know anymore. You tell me. And you better have a damn good answer, or I’m out._

And Simmons hadn’t been able to find any words, especially not the ones that would convince Grif to stay. He’d- he’d failed him. And he blew up, and called his dad the same night as Grif packed up and left, and told him what a fucking idiot both of them were, and how it had cost Simmons the love of his life. 

But he’d said all the worst things, and there couldn’t be a way to fix it, could there? He didn’t even know where to find Grif now. 

Simmons sat on his bed with a sigh. It had been three days since the breakup, and he just- just kept checking his phone. Kept wishing and hoping and praying. Kept getting disappointed. He had tried to call Grif, with no idea what he’d say, six hours after he’d left, but Grif’s phone had been off. He didn’t know what else to do, besides sleep on the couch because their bed was torture, and wait for Grif to come back. 

He tossed the phone on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. No point in waiting for nothing or moping about it, even if that _was_ all he felt like doing. He rose from the bed and went to the bathroom, taking off his suit-jacket and pulling off his shoes. He’d just turned the knob on the shower when he heard it- 

The familiar jingle of an iPhone ringtone. 

He paused, knowing Grif had a custom ringtone, knowing Grif would be the one to lose his phone. Knowing Grif would call if he was drunk in a bar somewhere and couldn’t drive. Knowing there was even the _slimmest chance-_

Button-down half undone, Simmons ran out of the bathroom in slacks and socks and answered the phone. “Hello?” 

“Is this Richard Simmons?” 

A woman. Possibilities came to him and he shut them down as best he could. “Uh- yes, ma’am?” 

“We have you listed as Dexter Grif’s emergency contact. Do you know if Valhalla is still his preferred hospital?” 

Simmons’ room spun as he sat on the bed, eyes wide, mind pulling useless information: 

_Fuck, yeah, dude! Valhalla! Like vikings and shit. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna do it somewhere that Thor’s gonna greet me with a crack of lightning and a beer._

_Grif, the vikings didn’t drink beer-_

He stared blankly ahead. “Uh- um- yes, ma’am, that’s correct.” 

“He’s had an accident at work.” 

Simmons’ mind echoed the words: _He’s had an accident at work. He’d had an accident._

“May I-” Simmons’ voice cracked and he forced it steady. “May I speak to him?” 

“I’m… Afraid that’s not possible right now.” 

“Why not?” The words spilled out, frantic. 

“The paramedics have just arrived, sir; I’ll call you when I have information on what room he’ll be in.” 

The line went dead. 

Paramedics. 

What room. 

He had an accident. 

One single word swallowed all the others, consumed every panicked thought as Simmons began to melt into despair: 

_Grif._

* * *

Simmons… Had never hated hospitals. Until now. 

He’d managed to keep a forcibly easy demeanor in past experiences with hospitals. He’d kept his face smooth, eyes light, voice composed. Kind of the residual habit of his mother trying to teach him empathy from a young age, to stay easy and calm in tense situations because everyone had something going on. He hadn’t ever been the best at that, but in hospitals, he’d had a set character, a role he played, and he’d done well sticking to his role for years. 

Until tonight. 

Tonight, everything about the hospital kept Simmons on edge. He sat with his foot twitching, tapping it against the tile to disguise his anxiousness. His eyes darted around the room as he waited for the doctors. As he waited for Grif to wake up and ask the doctors to see Simmons out, or worse, for the doctors to say Grif wouldn’t wake up. 

Simmons couldn’t bear that thought, but it kept circling back into his mind, his old anxiety overcoming all his years of practiced composure. 

He strained to keep calm over the next three hours, standing now and then to go to the vending machine and grab another packet of peanuts he’d eat maybe four of before throwing them away. Grab a Coca-Cola, because he’d sworn off soda at the age of fourteen after witnessing his aunt’s diabetes, but it was the most acceptable self-destructive urge he had right then. Drink two sips and hate the way the sugary liquid coated his tongue. Two more sips. Hate it. Throw it away. Buy another. 

It was a quarter past midnight when a nurse in a Charlie Brown scrub top approached the ER waiting room. Pretty young thing, fluffy brown hair and bright brown eyes. “Mr. Simmons? Grif family?” 

He stood from his chair and approached. “That’s me.” 

She smiled at him. “May I speak with you down the hall?” 

He nodded and she led him with a _Right this way._ Their shoes tapped the hallway, Simmons having pulled back on his shiny dress shoes before flying out the door an eternity ago. The nurse stopped by an alcove and he saw her eyes take in the stress of his features, her easy smile never ceasing. 

“Dexter has woken up and he seemed surprised to know you were here,” she said. “He asked if he could see you, but the doctors aren’t sure that’s a good idea, because any added stress could cause complications. May I ask the nature of your relationship with him?” 

Simmons’ chest seemed to cave in at the prospect of calling Grif his ex. He didn’t want to cause any dangerous stress, either, but… He had to know Grif was okay. And she’d said Grif asked to see him- maybe there was a chance at reconciliation…? He didn’t want to pay any mind to that fragile hope, but he- fuck, he’d give anything to talk to Grif again. He’d just had three hours in an ER waiting room of those moaning and cursing at their pains, family members desperately trying to achieve an atmosphere of hope and calm and prayer. He’d had three hours to sit by himself, and eat maybe twelve peanuts, and drink maybe half a can of Coke, and regret every harsh word he’d ever said to Dexter Grif. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” Simmons said. “We’ve been together for years. We- we had a fight a few days ago, but if he asked for me, I don’t think that’s bothering him too much.” 

She nodded, her eyes immediately comprehending the words he didn’t say. He hated how nurses just _knew_ shit. “I’ll take you back there and see what happens, alright?” 

He nodded. She led him down the hall and Simmons felt his heart pounding in his ribs. The moment approached, and he paused. The nurse glanced back at him. “Are you alright, sir?” 

“I- no one ever told me what happened to him. Or why he’s here. I need to be prepared for what I’m about to see.” 

She concealed her shock well after an initial wide-eyed blink, and then came back to him. “He had a seizure. They think it was from low blood sugar.” 

The hallway wavered. A seizure. Grif- low blood sugar. Simmons vaguely remembered Grif once mentioning his blood sugar, but he’d said it so casually, such a passing statement, that Simmons had thought it was just an excuse made for him eating half a chocolate cake. The only way Grif’s blood sugar would drop that far, Grif, who loved food, was if he wasn’t eating. Concern toppled shock and Simmons forced himself to nod, forced out the words, “Okay- let’s go.” 

He’d had four panic attacks that evening and felt a fifth coming on as he approached the door. Grif was just on the other side, the beautiful and wonderful man he was madly in love with, the man who deserved so much better than Simmons. The man who had asked to see Simmons. And Simmons just wanted him to be happy, so he’d grant any wish Grif asked- no matter how panic-inducing it was in the moment. 

The nurse left him at the door and Simmons was only dimly aware of her vanishing down the hall. His eyes had found Grif. 

Grif stared back as Simmons forced his feet to move again, through the door and into the room, and he had to _speak,_ had to make Grif understand that he loved him, that he- had to make him understand that this was all a mistake, none of this was how it was supposed to go- 

All that came out was, “If you want me to leave, I will, but I had to make sure you were okay.” 

And he saw his own desperation, his own need for the right words, in Grif’s eyes, and Grif said, “No, uh- stay.” 

Grif coughed as Simmons moved into the room, wary of how his heart pounded. _Please tell me you just missed breakfast and that’s why your blood sugar was low. Please tell me you knew I was still your emergency contact and left me there so I’d find my way back to you. Please tell me you were at work because you were hoping I’d come in and say I was done fighting. Please tell me we’re done with all the bullshit, and you understand why I was angry, and you forgive me for being such a dick._

Grif took in Simmons’ attire and noted, “Dude, you look rough. What’d you do?” 

“I was about to shower when I got the call,” Simmons said, and then added, “And I kind of fell in the parking lot.” 

Grif looked like he wanted to grin, but there was pain behind it, physical and emotional, and Simmons found he couldn’t meet his eyes any longer. He sat down in the chair next to Grif’s hospital bed, and the silence lingered for a moment. 

“Look, we’re going to talk about everything,” Grif said, weariness weighing his tone. “But not tonight.” 

Simmons swallowed his pain. “Okay. I- what can I do for you tonight?” 

And there it was, the wall between them, that Simmons desperately wanted to break down but didn’t know how. Grif almost grinned, but a cough followed. “Um… I want to ask for food but the doctors said no outside food allowed.” 

Simmons half-laughed, a sound that pushed out of him against the ragged remains of his chest. “Yeah, I- I thought about stopping to grab you something on the way, but… They didn’t give me a lot of details and I didn’t- didn’t want to make anything worse.” 

Grif had that look, halfway through the sentence, that look that reminded Simmons how long they’d known each other. That look that asked, _Why are we here? Like this? What happened to us?_ Simmons looked down and sighed, but Grif had said not tonight, and he would respect that. He had to. 

“Simmons.” 

He hated the way he internally flinched. It hurt more than he expected to hear Grif say his name. He turned his eyes back to Grif, bound to a hospital bed, weaker than Simmons could remember ever seeing him. 

“I love you, alright? We’ll- we’ll work through this. If you want to.” 

Simmons’ eyes widened. _If I-?_ “Grif, fuck yes, I want to! I-” _He doesn’t want to talk about it tonight._ “I love you, more than anyone in this world. And I don’t want to bombard you tonight, and I know you have a lot of medical stuff going on, but- but whenever you’re ready. I just-” his throat closed around the words. “I just want to _fix_ this.” 

Grif stared back at Simmons, expression blank but eyes mirroring Simmons’ own conflict and desperation and love. 

“Just stay with me tonight,” Grif said. 

“Anything you want.” 

* * *

The hospital discharged Grif at two in the morning, since Simmons was there to take him wherever he needed to go. They signed Grif out of the hospital and Simmons, out of habit, covered the medical costs. They walked into the dark parking lot, Grif having no choice but to lean on Simmons, and Simmons soaking up as much of that affection as he could (which was pretty pathetic, if he was honest with himself). 

They reached the car and got in, Simmons driving more carefully than ever. Silence pressed into the car interior, eyes flashing unspoken words by the dashboard light. As they reached the turn to leave the hospital, Simmons turned to Grif, heavy with the question he had to speak. 

“Where am I taking you?” 

Grif looked over in the darkness and Simmons’ chest pulled to see his dark brown eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, shining with tears. Grif took Simmons’ hand over the console between their seats. 

“Home.” 

And fuck, now Simmons was teary-eyed, too. He turned on his blinker and started down the road. 

So maybe they weren’t perfect. Maybe they fucked up and said terrible things to each other. Maybe they had a lot to work through and rifts to close and walls to break down. 

Maybe all that didn’t matter so much. 

Maybe all that really mattered was Grif’s hand in his, channeling love between them, because a ways to go was alright, as long as he was going with Grif at his side.


End file.
